Walk the Line
by Clair de Lune - ITML
Summary: He knows that they walk on a narrow line, always have. Michael/Lincoln, kind of slashy


**Title: Walk the Line  
****Characters:** Michael, Lincoln  
**Genre:** Gen, slash, in between...  
**Rating:** T  
**Warning:** Not quite incestuous but not exactly sane either points down at summary  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.  
**Summary:** He knows that they walk on a narrow line, always have.  
**Notes:** This is a fleshed-out version of one of the _Stories I Won't Write_. Thanks to happywriter06 for the beta and the title.

* * *

He's lying on his stomach, naked down to the waist. It shouldn't be an issue since it's Lincoln and nobody else sitting next to him, the thin mattress dipping at the edge under their combined weights. And well, it is _not_ an issue, not really, more a subject of reflection. Lincoln's thigh is pressed into his hip, his forearm intermittently brushing the middle of his back. The proximity, the warmth radiating from his brother and seeping into him is familiar and soothing; is the reason why he did all what he did – this and the fact that Linc was innocent obviously.

Linc's rough fingers are rubbing some balm on the burnt skin of his shoulder blade. The rubbing is a tad too harsh, lightly grazing the sore skin, but he won't complain because this is just Lincoln in a nutshell – tough yet caring. The touch is lingering and self-indulgent, making the small hair on his arms bristle, but he won't complain either even though he realizes that it's not totally appropriate. They're not appropriate people anyway. He's fine with it: it puts them in impossible situations quite a few times as well as it has saved their lives.

Lincoln extends an arm, slightly resting on his back, to get the compress and the surgical tape that have been tossed next to Michael's head. He doesn't move to help him. He just basks in the contact, in the feeling of Linc's hot breath on the side of his face, sinks into the bedding and shifts his hips. His back is briefly plastered against Linc's torso, the cotton of the shirt and some slightly moist skin brushing his bare shoulders. It makes something boil in his stomach, slowly creep up to his chest; he feels like rolling his spine, stretching and pressing into Lincoln. It can be anything from a feeling of well-being to bliss to arousal. He doesn't need to know; they don't need to know.

"Any other wounds that need to be taken care of?" Lincoln rasps jokingly behind him.

A few he won't mention because it would be useless. The point isn't the physical injuries themselves but the need for comfort, and this has been addressed.

"None I'm aware of."

"You used to come back with bruises and scratches when you were a kid."

He raises an eyebrow but definitely feels too lazy right now to move and turn on his back, or even to roll his head enough to look Lincoln in the eye. He just smirks and says, "Like you can talk."

A forefinger carefully fixes the tape on the compress, securing it, and then Lincoln's hand is patting his shoulder in a protective gesture. "Yeah. Well. You know." He doesn't take his hand off of him. He lets it slide across Michael's back to his left side. With two fingers, he draws the avenging angel's wings. The touch – the stroke – is careful, almost deferential, and Michael can't help closing his eyes and letting out a small moan. Lincoln's hand lies flat on him, surprisingly, pleasantly cool on his heated skin. Gentle. The fingers drumming and lulling him into slumber. He yawns and rolls his shoulders. It's not the first time he thinks that it's an unusual way to appease him and, maybe, an excessive display of brotherly love.

The touch, Linc's hand on his back tonight, is one thing; the lengths they're able to go for each other are quite another. He knows that they walk on a narrow line, always have. They take care not to fall, although on some occasions, they might stumble a bit and have to hang on _in extremis_ to their good sense – the little that's left of it anyway. None of it is totally sane and sound; none of it is totally twisted and fucked up. They like the ambiguity; they like flirting with the _what if_s; they like how casually okay it is. They don't, absolutely don't want to take it further. They love each other and what they share too much to actually desire that anything be different. They maintain a fragile, precarious balance and appreciate every minute of it.

-End-

20-21 June 2008

**Initial drabble**

**Prompt: Brotherly L****ove (Lincoln Burrows / Michael Scofield)**

He rolls his shoulders, closes his eyes and lets out a small moan when he feels Lincoln's fingers drawing the angel's wings on his back; Linc's touch is careful, almost deferential. It's not the first time that Michael thinks it's really an excessive display of brotherly love.


End file.
